5

Anya’s POV

The Next Day, 4:00 pm

The escrow account was open. The money was a numerical ghost, waiting in the digital ether. I stared at the contract copies spread across my desk, the bold signature of Anya Sharma glaring up at me. It felt less like a professional agreement and more like a binding spell. Ethan Cole had my ambition, my mission, and now, my immediate future, locked down with two cold, calculated stipulations:

I must act as Kai Rhodes’s Personal Assistant for the entire month-long final leg of his tour.

If I published anything negative or unauthorized—a single sentence, a private email, a hint of my true opinion, I would forfeit the colossal payment, and my NGO dream would collapse before it even started.

It was the cruelest catch, a perfect trap sprung by a man who was as brilliant as he was beautiful. He wasn’t just buying my writing; he was buying my silence and my servitude. He had found the exact point of vulnerability where my alter ego was powerless, my deepest, most sacred moral mission, The North Star Foundation. He leveraged my mother’s legacy against my professional freedom.

I had less than twenty-four hours to transition from a queen of the ruthless takedown to a glorified maid for the one man in the world I truly hated. I was going from writing poison to fetching purified water. The irony wasn’t lost on me; it was just intensely irritating.

My phone rang, a shrill interruption to my pity party. I didn’t even need to look at the caller ID. It was Maya, sounding furious and more rational than I was, which was her standard operating mode.

“Anya, are you insane?” she demanded, bypassing the usual greeting. “I just talked to Uncle Javier about the contract—he’s worried sick. He said the penalty clause is ironclad and unprecedented. PA? You’re going to be fetching towels for the man you called a ‘monument to mediocrity’ two days ago? That’s not a job, that’s professional torture.”

I paced my tiny office, trying to contain the restless energy that had been buzzing under my skin since I left Ethan’s glassy fortress. “It’s about access, Maya. Ethan was right. If I’m a PA, I’m invisible. I’ll be in the inner sanctum. I can observe him, his injury, his mood, his genuine struggle, without the pretense of a formal interview. It’s the only way to get the detail needed for a truly believable redemption story.”

“Or,” Maya countered sharply, her voice tight with disapproval, “it’s the perfect way to humiliate you while ensuring you can’t use anything you find against him. He knows your past with Kai. He knows the hatred. He’s putting you on a leash, Anya, and the other end is wrapped around The North Star. You’ve accepted a gilded cage, and the gold is only the promise of the Foundation.”

I stopped pacing and pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, staring at the darkening cityscape. “I know. But I have to do it. Think of the alternative, Maya. Another five years of scraping together funds, writing garbage I despise, watching the legal system fail the people we want to help. This is the fast track. The only track that gets us to a building in under a decade.”

“But what about the other track?” Maya pressed, her tone suddenly quieter, more serious. “Your other goal? Finding dirt on Kai? You told me this was about vindication, too, about proving he’s whatever ass you always thought he was. Now you have to write he’s a tragic hero. What if you find something damning? What if you find the real story, the one where he’s responsible for the crash?”

The real story. I hadn’t let myself fully consider that. What if I discovered some hideous truth about the accident—that he was reckless, drunk, or arrogant? If I published it, I would ruin him, but I would save my journalistic integrity, and lose the Foundation. If I kept silent, I would launch the Foundation, but I would be living a lie and aiding a monster.

It was an impossible ethical knot, woven together by money, hatred, and my mother’s ghost. Every move felt like a betrayal, either of the woman who raised me or the truth I was sworn to uphold.

“I won’t find anything,” I said, trying to convince myself more than Maya. “He’s a self-absorbed musician, not a criminal. He’s just… a spoiled jerk. I’ll write the authorized story, take the money, launch the Foundation, and walk away clean. Thirty days, Maya. I can do anything for thirty days. I’ll be the PA-ssionate Crusader for a month, then I’ll be free.”

Maya was quiet for a long moment. “Listen, Uncle Javier has a friend who runs the security detail on that tour. He’s going to keep an eye on things, silently. He doesn’t like Ethan Cole, and he trusts you. Just in case you need an ear or a silent favor. Don’t do this alone, Anya. Keep your head down and your eyes open.”

I felt a surge of warmth. Javier, my father’s old business partner, had always been my silent champion, often anonymously donating small sums to my initial fundraising efforts. “Thank you, Maya. Tell him I appreciate it. And now I have to go pack a suitcase full of clothes that look sufficiently subservient. I need to nail the ‘invisible, functional piece of human machinery’ look.”

I hung up, feeling marginally better but still consumed by apprehension. I spent the rest of the day purging The Critic. I deleted the scathing draft of the Kai Rhodes piece I had been working on. I deactivated my Spotlight social media accounts. I told the skeleton crew I’d hired to keep the site running with soft-focus news for a month, nothing controversial, just “puppies and praise.”

By the time the sleek black SUV arrived to pick me up that evening, I felt like I was shedding an old, beloved skin. The ambitious, sharp-tongued Anya Sharma was gone, replaced by a nervous, tightly wound assistant who couldn’t afford to make a single mistake.

The SUV dropped me outside a massive hangar near the city’s private airport. The tour bus was a gleaming, black behemoth that looked more like a mobile luxury hotel than a vehicle,part cruise ship, part bank vault. It was ridiculously huge, utterly intimidating, and smelled faintly of new carpet and old rock-and-roll. The sheer scale of the operation, the bus, the jet they’d be alternating with made my head spin. These people didn’t just tour; they migrated like royalty.

My bags were quickly taken by a silent crew member. I stood at the bottom of the steps, clutching my old messenger bag with the Foundation documents inside. This was the point of no return. I was trading my principles for a payoff.

I climbed the steps, forcing my shoulders back and taking a deep breath. Thirty days, Anya. Thirty days for the North Star.

The interior of the bus was dimly lit, bathed in a low, purple-blue light that was probably supposed to be atmospheric but just felt moody and oppressive. The front lounge was empty, all plush leather seats and polished chrome. The bus seemed to be split into distinct sections by heavy privacy doors, presumably the band’s bunks, the kitchen, and, at the very back, the master suite.

I found a road manager named Ben, a tired-looking man with a permanent five o’clock shadow, checking inventory. He looked like he was one bad soundcheck away from retirement.

“You must be Anya,” he mumbled, barely looking up. “The new PA. Don’t talk to the press, don’t talk to the band unless necessary, and don’t, under any circumstances, talk to Kai unless he speaks to you first. Got it? He’s currently operating at minimum tolerance for existence.”

“Understood,” I replied, my voice sounding strained.

“Good. He’s in the back suite. He hasn’t left since the accident. He’s… angry. Very angry. Just leave his dinner tray outside the door and knock once. You’ll be sleeping in the spare bunk, third door on the left.” He shoved a clipboard at me. “Your duties are all listed there. Mostly inventory, scheduling, and keeping the kitchen stocked. Don’t bother him. Seriously. Just don’t. He’s in a mood-er home right now.”

The warning was clear: the wounded artist was a viper, and I was about to enter his enclosure.

I checked the clipboard, organizing my thoughts. Dinner first. I located the back suite, the door made of thick, dark wood. I paused, my hand hovering over the mahogany, remembering the last time I’d seen him, the arrogant sneer, the cold green eyes, the fury that had defined our broken family history.

I was here now, not as an equal, but as his servant, tasked with documenting his tragedy.

I took the deepest breath I could manage, reciting my mantra—The Foundation, the Foundation, the Foundation—and pushed the heavy door open, not to deliver food, but to face my personal demon.

The suite was spacious but oppressively dark. The only light came from a sliver of the window and the soft, diffused glow of a large monitor on the wall, which was muted and silent. The air was heavy, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something deeper, more musky, like old wood and unspoken pain.

Kai was there, but he wasn’t the preening rock god I was used to seeing on magazine covers.

He was sprawled on a huge, custom-built chaise lounge. He wore only a pair of dark sweatpants, and his torso was bare, displaying the kind of sharp, defined musculature that looked like it had been earned through discipline, not just good genetics. But the dominant feature was his left hand.

It was encased in a thick, surgical bandage, bulky and white, resting awkwardly on a cushion next to him. This was the hand of the guitarist, the hand that had commanded stadiums. Now it looked useless, a white, plaster sculpture. His other hand—his good, right hand—was clutching a glass of amber liquid, which he swirled slowly, staring into it as if searching for answers in the reflection.

His hair was longer than I remembered, slightly disheveled, and his face was tight, framed by a newly grown, rough stubble that only accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked damaged. Tortured. And absolutely, unequivocally furious.

He didn’t move. He didn’t look up. He just sensed my presence, like a predator sensing a shift in the air pressure.

After what felt like forever, I cleared my throat.

 He still hadn’t looked at me, but now the silence was deafening, suffocating. My heart beat a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I knew this was the moment I had to announce myself.

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, Kai shifted, and the amber liquid in his glass caught the faint light, flashing a dark gold warning.

 I swallowed, forcing myself to step fully into the room, ready for the confrontation, knowing I could not back down.